Soldier of God
by Gurrbill
Summary: !AU!Falling to earth and bonding to a human to prove yourself to a God you're not sure exists is a challenge within itself. But when you're an angel with no concept of the human race? Things get a whole lot worse. Dean Winchester-a veteran stuck in his rut of a life-gets landed with Castiel. A guy who Dean is pretty sure is a mental patient escapee. But it could be worse... right?
1. Normality Isn't For Me

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, Supernatural characters, or anything affiliated with Supernatural. Please don't sue me.**

**Soldier of God**

**Chapter 1**

_**"Normal Isn't For Me"**_

Day in, day out. Same old, same old.

Dean didn't think he could take it anymore.

The fiery taste of whiskey burned a pleasant trail down his throat as he took another gulp of the amber liquid. One of his only escapes from the stretch of blank paper that was his pre-destined future._ Nectar of the gods,_ it was.

Absently, his gaze travelled over the front yard, watching silently, not really taking anything in. The neighbourhood was like any other in Lawrence; all pretty white houses with picket fences and wooden porches. Kids played ball games on lush green lawns and big estate cars rolled up and down the streets, the people inside them going about their daily business and grocery shopping. An apple-pie life with no surprises.

_God _was it boring.

How could people live this way and just be content with the same thing over and over? It was like their days were looped, doomed to repeat themselves over and over again until they each eventually died off.

'They' being the rest of the world.

The man let out a heavy sigh as he leant back on his brother's porch steps, grasping the cool bottle of Jack in his hand as the sun beat down on his head, relishing the fleeting moment of peace before his mind began thinking again.

As much as he hated to admit it, he missed Afghan.

The thrill, the adrenaline of each day had pumped through his veins like the very blood that kept him alive. A new challenge presented itself to his platoon almost every waking hour - nothing was the same, nothing bored him to death and he was always kept busy.

If only he could-

"Dean! Where are you? We're gonna start without you otherwise!"

Dean huffed as his brother's voice rippled through the air, tearing him from his thoughts. Why couldn't he just be left to stew in the memories of his better years?

Heaving another breath, he placed a hand on his knee and pushed himself up, reaching down briefly to grab his cane as his leg twinged painfully. Damn bullet wound. The doctor's had told him it would heal in time, but no matter what, he'd always have a limp. For the rest of his life, he'd never be able to be recruited back in to the army; not to mention he'd had a huge twisted scar as a parting gift. Like a final _Fuck you, Dean! _from life.

The very thought of being trapped in Lawrence for the rest of his life made him want to hurl.

Gathering up his reserves of fake smiles, he limped back to his brother's back yard, the smell of cooking meat wafting through the air and the unmistakeable sound of chatting voices floating up and over the fence. He reached the gate and let himself in to the lush garden at the back of the house, his eyes roving over the sea of familiar faces that turned upwards to greet him with smiles. Dean couldn't help the slight twinge of jealousy he felt at their happiness.

A heavy hand clapped him on the shoulder and he turned to see his younger brother's happy face grinning down at him. The thought that Sammy really needed a haircut briefly flitted through Dean's head.

"We thought you'd wandered off for a second, Dean," Sam said, leading him over to the bright red grill set on the stone patio. Dean found himself relishing the smell of the cooking burgers; one of the very few luxuries left in his life, "I was gonna let Bobby have all of your burgers if you didn't hurry up."

"I can still take ya up on that offer!" A voice shouted from the back of the yard, and Dean found himself laughing as he turned to face the bearded man.

"You'll have to fight me for 'em, Bobby!" He shouted back, his grin evident. Bobby always managed to cheer him up on what he'd liked to dub his 'hump days'. The man was like a second father to him, even more so when his real father had died when he was just sixteen. Ten years on and the memory of the fire that had claimed John Winchester's life hadn't become any less vivid. Dean dreamt about it sometimes. Even when he was awake he could still recall the smell of ash filling his nostrils and clogging his lungs, could still hear the crackle of burning wood, could still see the deadly orange flames snaking around his feet. He could only be thankful that his mother and his brother had escaped the house with barely a scratch on them. The same couldn't be said for himself, however; the huge burn scar where the fire had darted up and latched on to his calf was enough proof that he and Death had danced the cha-cha with Dean just barely coming out of it alive.

Sam had said something, but Dean hadn't been listening, so he just nodded and followed his brother over to the grill. Jess was sat in a garden chair on the stone patio, smiling as her husband came over and bent down to give her a quick peck on the lips. Inwardly, Dean smiled; as sappy as it sounded, it was nice to see his brother so content with this life. Even if he himself couldn't be happy, it was nice to see that his family could be.

Speaking of family...

"Dean! I was beginning to think you'd left."

His mother's voice made him turn, and he smiled when he saw her short self sauntering up to him, shrugging as he did so.

"Eh, you know me. I ain't that easy to get rid of." He responded, giving her a one-armed hug, his hand still holding on to his bottle tightly. She hugged back, her blonde hair tickling his chin, before she pulled away, looking up at the sky through her eyelashes.

"That's strange."

Dean followed her line of sight and saw that the sky (a bright, clear blue just moments before) was slowly turning a stormy grey, large clouds rolling in from all directions as thunder boomed, looming above the barbeque. An uneasiness settled in to his stomach as he smelt the crackling ozone in the air. Something about the weather made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he wasn't sure it was anything to do with the clouds themselves, but what they brought with them.

_Whoa, deep._

"Didn't the weather forecast say we'd have a heat wave for the next two weeks?" Ellen, Dean's old friend who ran the Roadhouse bar a couple blocks away, mumbled as she sidled up beside him, "Damn weatherman; they don't ever get anythin' right."

Dean nodded his agreement, a light spattering of water droplets landing on his upturned face as the Heaven's themselves decided to open. In the distance, he could hear Sam's grill starting to fizzle as the water reacted with the heat. Without second thought, Sam switched the device off and closed the lid, frowning up at the sky.

"Looks like this'll have to wait another day, everyone." Jess said, standing up and taking control of the situation. Her words were met with disappointed groans, but no-one could ever stay disappointed around Jess; she had this way with people. They seemed to like and trust her no matter what the situations was. It was probably the reason that made Sam fall for her in the first place.

"Shame," Ellen said, "I was lookin' forward to those burgers. Well, it was nice seein' you lot. Dean, Mary." The woman smiled at each of them in turn before calling over her shoulder, "C'mon Jo! We gotta hustle some tail."

Jo, Ellen's daughter (rather good looking daughter with a nice ass, Dean's mind added) got up from her chair and joined her mother, sending a smile at Dean as she walked away. Dean smiled back, giving her a wink as an added bonus, his eyes roving over the smooth curves of her form. Hey, there was no law against looking, right?

There apparently was. He knew this much when he felt a hand slap him on the back of his head after Jo had left the garden, and he turned around to find the steely gaze of his mother trained upon him.

"What was that for?!" He asked, putting down the bottle of whiskey on a nearby table and rubbing the back of his head. There was a stinging senstation that was still buzzing on the skin of his scalp.

"Don't think I don't know about your escapades with women, young man." She told him sternly, hands on her hips in a typical 'I'm-your-mother-and-I-know-you-better-than-you-kn ow-you' way, "I don't want you womanising dear Jo - she's a sweet girl. And I don't hink Ellen would approve."

"'Womanising'?" Dean paraphrased, feeling infinitely small under his mother's eyes despite his height advantage, "I prefer the term 'liberating'-"

His excuse was cut short, however, as lightning struck close by, the very sound and sight of it making the stragglers at the barbeque jump with fright. The screeching of tyres on the road out front tore through the sky, and people yelled in the distance.

After the moment of eerie silence that followed the show of light, Dean couldn't help but instinctively leave his mother's side and leap in to action, (or, limp in to action as fast as he could) his cane thumping along the earthy ground as he made his way to the front of the house, going past the porch and on to the curb. He could hear his mother and Sam following closely behind him, calling out his name, but the call of something different outweighed his brother's voice. Whatever this disturbence was, it could liven up his day a just little, as selfish as it sounded. The temptation was too great to ignore.

He reached the road, where a black Porsche was smack-bang in the middle of the street, swerved slightly on the now wet asphalt. A crowd of about five or so people were clamouring around in a semi-cricle in front of the car's hood, a few of them knelt down and staring at something he couldn't see.

A moment later, he had joined the group of people, looking down to see what all the commotion was about.

There, lying spread-eagled on the ground wearing only black suit pants was a man no taller than 5"11, unruly black hair sitting mussed atop his head and (if they had been open) almost impossibly large eyes. Not a scratch was anywhere on his body, and if Dean had been sure of his own eyes, he would of said that there was a strange, pearly half-glow to the man's already pale skin.

But that must've just been a trick of the light against the rain drops, right?

Without really thinking, Dean pushed his way past two frantic women who were both flapping their hands at each other and frantically asking someone to dial 911, rolling his eyes at their uselessness.

_Women_, he mentally snorted.

Dropping his cane, he knelt down beside the stranger's head and put two fingers on his neck, waiting patiently for a pulse. When none came, he couldn't quieten the fear that rose up inside his stomach, clamping around his insides like a huge, unforgiving hand. A little less than hopeful, he tapped the guy's stubbled cheek gently.

"Hey! Hey, can you here me?" He questioned, his voice firm but steady, like he was back in his platoon, giving an order to a lower ranking soldier who was too scared to move, "Come on man, move your fingers if you can hear me. Blink your eyelids. Do _somethin'._"

He did a whole lot more than blink.

The last word Dean had said must've acted as some sort of weird trigger, judging by the way the guy took a sharp intake of breath, opened his eyes wide and sat up like he'd just been pulled physically back from the edge by an invisible hand. Or jabbed in the ass with a pin. Either way, he got up pretty damn fast.

The audience that had gathered took a step back, mumbling to each other, leaving Dean kneeling in surprise next to the stranger. The Winchester was downright freaked out now. No pulse, no sign of life, then _bam; _all of a sudden he shoots up like a friggin' daisy? What was this guy, Jesus?

The man was staring around at the crowd now, looking like he'd never seen another human being before, his head cocked to the side slightly, as though he was trying to make sense of a particularly difficult puzzle. Brow furrowed in confusion, Dean snapped his fingers in front of the man's face, trying to gain his attention.

"Hey! You okay man?" He asked as the guy turned to face him, his eyebrows creased together. When the stranger's blue eyes landed on Dean's face, they widened so far that the Winchester thought they might fall out of their sockets.

"Dean Winchester."

The gravelly voice was the least of Dean's surprises as he did a double take, his eyebrows threatening to disappear in to his hairline.

"What?"

The stranger stared at him for another moment, before shaking himself, as though he was clearing his head of the fuzziness that had probably enveloped it in the past few seconds. Dean stared at him incredulously.

Deciding he must've misheard the guy, he tried asking other questions instead. "What's your name? You need a doctor?"

Mr. Nobody seemed to have to think for a moment before answering, his eyebrows knitted together in concentration while he tried to retrieve the right words. Maybe the guy _had _hit his head or something, 'cause Dean was pretty sure it shouldn't take more than a minute to remember your own name.

"Castiel," the man finally answered in his rough tones, his eyes latching firmly on to Dean's. The veteran felt an uncomfortable shiver run down his spine when he saw the startling blue of those eyes; it was as though there was something hidden behind them, closed off from the rest of the world and put under lock and key.

Dean blinked, mentally shaking himself. Why was he looking in to everything today? Jeez, it was like his life was slowly being turned in to a badly written novel.

"My... My name is Castiel." The guy repeated, nodding slightly, as though he was unsure of the name himself. The quiet, scared undertone of the guy's voice was hard to miss, and Dean found himself frowning in sympathy. Memory loss, maybe?

Castiel's unrelenting stare came back around and attached to Dean's face again, and even if the Winchester felt bad for the guy, he couldn't help but squirm a little under the wide eyed scrutiny. It was kinda... Unnerving.

"I..." Castiel began, unsure of himself, "I do not think I require medical assistance."

Castiel sounded like the English language had only just been taught to him, but if he cared, he didn't show it. Tersely, he stood, startling the veteran more than it should have. The guy shouldn't be able to move like that after being hit head-on by a car. He shouldn't be able to move much of anything at _all_.

Hastily grabbing his cane, Dean hoisted himself up next to the curious human in front of him, hell-bent on finding out more. But before he could question him any further, a stumpy, thirty-something woman came hurtling from the crowd like some sort of human-cheetah hybrid, spouting apologies like they were water and her mouth was the tap.

"Oh my God, are you okay? I didn't see you, the lightning-"

"Whoa lady, calm down," Dean said before Castiel had a moment to form a response, holding up a hand, "The guy was just run over, give him some space."

The woman seemed to get a hold of herself, deciding to address Dean rather than Castiel, who was still staring in to space, sometimes stopping to stare at a member of the slowly dissipating crowd before returning to his zoning out. Dean had to refrain from raising his eyebrows at the odd behaviour - no matter how weird this guy was, he _had _just been in an accident. Even though there were absolutely no signs of injury, it could be a symptom of shock.

Somehow, Dean doubted that was true.

"I swear," the woman continued, guilt evident on her features, "He came out of absolutely nowhere. If I didn't know any better, I would've said he'd arrived with the lightning."

Dean raised his eyebrows at the comment; for all he knew she was just saying this to get out of being sued. He opened his mouth and turned to Castiel, planning on asking him what he wanted to do about this situation.

He was met with only empty space.

Dean's mouth opened and closed a few times as his head darted around, searching for the possibly concussion-suffering man, but for the life of him, the veteran couldn't see anything. No hide nor hair of a bare chest or suit pants to be seen anywhere in the street.

He could only shrug to himself when he gave up looking around. He sent one final glance at the woman (who looked just as surprised as he felt) before dragging himself back to his brother's porch, where Sam and Mary were waiting for him.

As he was lead back in to the house, he couldn't shrug off the feeling that he'd missed something really important.

**Don't forget to R&R! ^_^**


	2. I Think I've Seen Your Face Before

**Soldier of God**

**Chapter 2**

_**"I Think I've Seen Your Face Before"**_

_"Makin' my way downtown, walking fast, faces pass and I'm homebound NANANANANANA..."_

Dean rolled his eyes at the song playing on the radio as he scooted further underneath his beloved Impala, his hands slick with grease and oil as he tried to drown out the sorry excuse for music. What was with the crap stuff they liked to play on the radio nowadays? What was wrong with a little bit of ACDC?

_Those are the questions that keep me up at night. _

The veteran could only puzzle over the radio's music selections as he worked relentlessly on his car, determined to get her to achieve her best. He was lead flat out on his back, staring up at the suspension, a grin on his face as he admired his handiwork. At least his work on his baby hadn't been hindered by his wound.

He kicked out with his good leg until he rolled out from beneath the car, grabbing the dirty rag off of the floor and wiping his hands with it, noting vaguely that the same song was still playing through the speakers. The rag he had picked up was so dirty that it just made everything worse, but Dean wasn't really paying attention to that. What he was paying attention to, however, was the short man sat in the shotgun seat of his car.

Dean scrabbled for his cane and stood up as quickly as he could, his hand reaching out to the rickety shelf on the wall behind him, mentally sighing in relief when his hands brushed the cool barrel of his .45. He aimed the weapon at the man in his car, prepared to fire at any given moment.

The man, however, didn't even seem to notice the disturbance. Instead, he just hummed along to the song playing on the radio, his hands slapping the dashboard to the catchy rhythm. Dean's eyes darted back and forth between the stranger's round face and his tapping hands for a full minute before he got a hold of himself and managed to find his voice.

"Hey!" He shouted, his brows creased together as he stared at the intruder, "Get outta my car!"

"Oh Deano," the man said, grinning as he retracted his hands in to his lap, "You interrupted one of my _favourite _songs."

Dean blinked in surprise at the use of 'Deano', taking an involuntary step backwards.

"How'd you know my name?" He asked warily, green eyes narrowing in suspicion. It would just be his luck to have attracted a crazy stalker. A male, completely unattractive, crazy stalker.

_It just doesn't get any better, does it?_

Abruptly, the man turned to stare at Dean like he'd just committed a criminal offence - which would be kind of ironic in this situation - and pouted. An action so strange that Dean fought the bizarre urge to laugh.

"At least I know _your _name," he whined, crossing his arms and reminding Dean of a sulky little girl, "You haven't even _asked _for mine."

Dean could only continue to stare.

The man sighed, mumbling something about 'having the manners of a wet mop', before opening his mouth again.

"Gabriel, since you so politely asked." He said pointedly.

The Winchester spluttered where he stood, grasping at the words that were quickly fleeing from his mind, leaving him to drown in the proverbial pool that was his life. Finally, he managed "What the hell are you doing in here?!"

Gabriel sucked his cheek for a moment, seemingly lost in thought, before he answered.

"Well, I suppose I'm here to warn you."

And in a snap of fingers, Gabriel was right in front of Dean's face, grinning at him like a cat that had caught a mouse between its paws, playing with the rodent in its final moments of life. Dean nearly fell over at the abrupt appearance, his mind reeling. "What-?"

"You are about to be blessed, Dean Winchester, with a great opportunity. A _rare _opportunity," Gabriel continued, his demeanour becoming serious, almost business-like, smirk dropping clean off of his face. He took a step forward, and Dean had to take a step back to accommodate the presence, his back hitting the old wooden shelf on the wall in his haste to get away from this man - this _thing _- in front of him, "And I will be watching over you to make sure you don't mess it up."

Finally, Dean managed to get a hold of his tongue and make it create words, "'Blessed'? Who are you? I don't-"

"No, of course you don't." Gabriel smirked, placing two fingers on to Dean's forehead. It felt as though a spark of electricity was running through his flesh, zig-zaging through the nerves and sinew, but the feeling was brief as Gabriel removed his fingers a second later, smirking as he took a step back.

"But you will."

And just like that he was gone.

"Are you sure?"

Dean closed his eyes, pinching his nose in frustration. Yes he was damn well sure! He'd been 'sure' since he'd first began telling his brother what'd happened just half an hour ago. He was still trying to decipher what it had been all about, but he swore to God that he didn't have a clue. Not one.

The headache that had steadily been getting worse since Gabriel's 'visit' wasn't helping his thoughts along either.

"Yes, I'm sure Sam." He answered through clenched teeth, his free hand tapping his knee erratically. What was so hard to grasp about what he'd just said? Some random guy named Gabriel drops in to his garage like he'd been teleported straight from the freakin' Star Trek Enterprise, told Dean that he'd been blessed with a great opportunity or some shit like that, electrocuted him, and then disappeared like a friggin' fairy right in front of his eyes a minute later.

Okay, maybe that sounded a _little _insane.

But it was the truth! He couldn't help it if all this weird crap was happening to him. It was like the universe had taken up an official 'Let's Freak The Fuck Out Of Dean Winchester' campaign, and was working relentlessly to enforce it.

He sighed as another wave of pain passed through his skull like a parade. He could feel his brother's eyes resting on him, probably looking at him like he was about to explode. Heck, the way Dean was feeling right now, he might. And soon.

This whole mess with Gabriel was even weirder than the whole situation with that guy who'd gotten run over by the Porsche a couple of days ago. What was his name again? Callum? Cameron?

Oh, Castiel, right?

As soon as the name had appeared in his mind's eye - the very _second _his memory decided to push the word forwards - it felt like a brick wall was being slammed in to his mind with the force of a thousand trains going 120 miles an hour.

Without really meaning to, he clutched at his head as he curled in to himself, his knee nudging his cane, making it fall to his brother's carpeted floor with a soft _thwump_. His fingers gripped handfuls of hair, his teeth clenching so hard that he feared they might fall out next time he opened his mouth.

"Dean?" Sam's low, concerned voice barely cut through the ringing that was filling up Dean's mind like a hundred church bells all at once, "Dean!"

The veteran barely gasped out his brother's name before he keeled over, and everything went black.

_Jesus, was I just hit with a ton of bricks?_

That was Dean's first coherent thought as he came to, the muffled sound of panicked voices swimming through his head like oversized fishes. They felt like blunt knives being scraped across his eardrums, and Dean's next coherent thought was that he'd love it if they'd just _be quiet. _

"I don't know, he just sorta ...fell over-"

"There isn't anything wrong with him, is there? Did he eat anything he wasn't supposed to, or-"

"I already told you - I don't know! He-"

"_'He'_ just wants you to shuttup." Dean mumbled, his voice hoarse as he opened his eyelids. They felt like lead. Lead mixed with elephants, sat on top of his eyeballs.

_That sounds painful. _

His vision was filled with black spots, and when they cleared, he was met with Jess' and Sam's concerned faces hovering over him, the couch on Sam's side and the edge of the coffee table on Jess'. And both were looking at him like they expected him to catch fire and start dancing the tango with the neighbour's dog at any given second.

Now _there's_ a weird mental image.

"What happened Dean?" Sam asked straight away, eager to know what was wrong with his brother. Jess shot him a furtive glare, as if to say 'He just woke up, you shouldn't be questioning him right _now'. _

Dean felt a like a little kid being fussed over, and he couldn't help but be a bit offended by the notion. He was big boy; he ate his veggies and everything. He could take care of himself just fine...

At least, he was pretty _sure _he could.

Taking a breath, he reached his hand up to the side of the sofa and hauled himself in to a sitting position, hissing in pain as he knocked his leg - it still hadn't fully healed. That damned cane was lying innocently on the carpet to his right, silently taunting him with its blank wood and scuff marks. He was_ this close _to snapping the thing in two.

"...Dean?"

Apparently, glaring at his cane was cause for concern, judging by the way Sammy was looking at him. All tight lips and furrowed brows. Bitchface no. 3, apparently. That one hadn't been used in a while.

"One minute I'm talking," Dean shrugged, glancing up at his brother, "The next I'm lookin' up at your ugly mug." He finished, pursing his lips as he grasped the cane, pulling himself up. He wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. The need to be alone with his thoughts was strong in his mind, and he felt obligated to fulfil it.

"Now I..." Dean paused, searching for any excuse to use, his thumb pointing over his shoulder, "I just remembered I left the... The cat inside. Yeah," he threw a fake grin at the couple now staring at him with worried eyes, "He can't last long inside, poor guy. Bladder the size of a pea - better get back before he scratches up the place tryin' to get out."

With that, he left the room, door slamming shut a second later as he vacated the house.

A full minute's silence passed before Sam decided to speak.

"Something's seriously wrong." He stated, still staring at the spot where his older brother had been, moments before his quick escape.

"Well, maybe he just had a funny turn," Jess shrugged her small shoulders, turning to her husband and smiling softly, understanding in her eyes. Sam cared so much about his family, it was unbelievable at times. "We all get them every now and again. I passed out during english class in sixth grade once, and nobody could figure out why. It's just one of those things, you know?"

Sam shook his head slowly, hair falling in front of his eyes as he did so, Adam's apple bobbing, "No... It's something more than that."

Jess raised her eyebrows - Sam Winchester, a psychiatrist? She didn't think so.

"And how exactly do you know that?" She challenged subtly, her eyebrows raised.

Sam turned his head, looking at her with a kind of deadly-serious concern lighting up his eyes.

"Dean doesn't have a cat."

Dean's head was beginning to pound again as he limped back to his house. He reached the front door and fumbled with his key, the door flying open so fast that the Winchester practically face-planted in to his hallway, barely managing to close the door behind him and trip in to his living room. He fell on to his sofa, his head hurting more and more. Nothing about any of this made sense - he thought of Castiel and everything just hurt. Even now, when Dean wasn't really concentrating on anything, pain thrummed through his head, pulsing in time with the questions swarming his mind.

_Who was Gabriel?_

_What was happening to him?_

_And why in the _hell _was it him of all people involved? _

All of his thoughts were mixing with his pain and he found that he couldn't take it. It was like someone intrusive was inside his head that he just couldn't get out, and it was unrelenting as it attacked his system.

It was becoming too much; his vision was going black again, and his hands were shaking as they gripped his head.

Just when he reached the edge of consciousness and had given up trying to stave off the pain, a weight that he hadn't known was resting on his mind was lifted - like it had been kicked out of his head by something that definitely wasn't Dean - and left him still and pain-free on his living room floor.

He opened his eyes to find carpet. He was crouched on the floor, arms stretched pathetically over his head in an attempt to protect himself from whatever was happening. He lay there for what felt like hours (but what was probably just a few seconds) letting his breathing return to normal, his senses wandering. The air around him felt too peaceful for his liking - the room was suspiciously quiet. Everything felt almost... Tranquil.

He didn't like it one bit. His instincts and his gut were both telling him that something was deeply wrong.

Warily, he got up, grabbing his cane as he sat on his sofa, eyes darting around, as though he were expecting the very shadows themselves to dart out towards him and attack at any second.

He sat there for who knows how long. It was hard to admit, but he was a little freaked out. He didn't understand what was happening to him. He didn't understand Gabriel. He didn't understand what this pain was and he didn't like any of this situation. Maybe he should see a doctor...

The thought was half-hearted. The Winchesters had never relied on anyone else for help, be it medical, mental or any other kind. No, Dean downright refused to go to a doctor. Hospitals had always creeped him out anyway.

The best he could hope for was that nothing else entirely weird was going to happen to him in the future.

Yeah, like nothing weird was going to happen to _him._

'Weird' was all that did happen to him. Strange things, freaky happenings, creepy people; they were drawn to him like a fat guy was drawn to a cake shop.

It was a three days after Gabriel when it happened.

Sometime in the afternoon, Dean had just been walking home from a trip to the grocery store, casually humming 'Highway to Hell' under his breath when he'd heard a muffled yell from the alleyway he'd just passed. The Winchester stopped, straining to hear the sound again, very nearly shrugging it off as nothing when the same voice cried out again.

Immediately, he dropped his shopping bag and backed up until he reached the alleyway, brow furrowed as he concentrated on hearing the voice. The dark passage in front of him was shaped like a T, going straight up between two building before branching off in two separate directions at the end. His gaze travelled up past the dank brick wall, landing at the end of the unlit path, where dark silhouettes were framed against a cold back drop of wire fence and garbage skips.

Dean furrowed his brow, stepping towards the group a little. It was obvious they had someone pinned against the dumpster. And by the looks of it, they were beating the crap outta him.

"Hey!" He yelled (he'd been yelling that a lot lately, he noted) beginning to stomp towards the group as fast as his leg would allow him to, his cane thumping frequently on the ground with the force of the weight being put on it. There were about three guys, from what Dean could see, and all three had turned at the sound of Dean's loud, rumbling voice. Apparently, they'd all rather flee than have the risk of getting the police involved, because within seconds they were gone, leaving no evidence of their presence behind aside from a quivering form leaning heavily against the skip, barely managing to stay standing. Dean reached the guy just as he began to topple over, pulling a skinny arm over his shoulder to hoist the shorter man up.

"I got you, I got you," Dean grunted, surprised by the guy's weight - for a stick of a man he was pretty damn heavy.

Using his cane to lean most of the extra weight on, Dean began the tedious task of trudging back to the street, dragging himself and the stranger back to safety and light and (hopefully) away from thugs.

After three minutes of huffing and puffing, the pair were back on the sidewalk, and Dean finally got a good look at his charge's face.

He very nearly dropped the guy.

"Castiel?"

'Castiel' raised his head at the sound of his name, and Dean's assumptions were confirmed. Though it was decorated with slowly blossoming bruises and the occasional cut, the face was definitely the one he had seen just five days ago. The same mussed black hair, stubbled chin and large blue eyes, all looking a lot rougher than Dean had last seen them.

"What are you _doing _down here?" The Winchester asked, his confusion deepening as Castiel leant in to him, nearly sending them both over on to the tarmac.

"Humans... are not... as kind as I... had thought..." The black haired man panted out. That wasn't the answer Dean had been expecting, but he could care less. Castiel needed medical attention, and his house was just a few doors down. The questions could wait until the guy was feeling a little better at least.

On the way back, the veteran couldn't help but realise how damn weird his life was lately. Like the big man upstairs was throwing him curve balls to see how many it would take to drive him insane.

And honestly?

He didn't think it was gonna get better any time soon.


	3. Meanwhile

_**Soldier of God **_

_**Chapter 3**_

_**"Meanwhile"**_

Time moves differently in Heaven.

Which is probably why it took a full earthen week for the news of Castiel's fall to reach the ears of one archangel Michael.

And boy, was he _mad _when he found out.

The storms that ensued across America afterwards could be heard across the globe. Trees were felled, phone lines toppled oceans became so rough that ships were sunk; there were even _landslides _in some places. The humans were starting to panic, some even going as far to say it was the start of the Apocalypse.

All because Michael was quite literally storming around in his Office on High, ranting to his second in command (Anna, an angel with bright red hair and unusually pale skin) stomping back and forth, wearing a hole in to the thin carpet like there was no tomorrow - there probably wouldn't be at this rate.

"I can't believe - earth? _Really_?" Michael exclaimed for the third time in two minutes, wringing his hands, his pacing becoming so powerful that navy-blue feathers were flying everywhere, just from the force of his steps, "There are better punishments! For an offence as small as the one Castiel committed, he should've at least gotten a _manageable sentence._"

Anna looked up at the archangel through her lashes, sympathy radiating from her orbs.

"He disobeyed a direct order from God, Michael," She responded simply, her pristine white wings rustling as she settled more comfortably in to her chair, "There _is _no higher offence."

Michael merely snorted, waving Anna off, "But he disobeyed on the grounds of _moral righteousness! _That has to count for _something _in His eyes_._" For a moment, Michael looked like he was chewing a wasp, hands on his hips, "If it weren't for Castiel, thousands of His precious little _humans _would've-"

"You're close to blasphemy, brother," Anna warned quietly, eyes glancing towards the ceiling, as if the Lord himself was sat on the roof, "Hold your tongue."

"Blasphemy my feathers," Michael said, huffing as he crossed his arms. He went silent, seething quietly, his breaths heavy through his nose.

Anna could only look up at her superior, stuck between annoyance and empathy. She agreed wholeheartedly with him, of course. What Castiel did... going against God, against all that he'd been taught for his entire life to save just a few thousand humans...

It was an act of bravery. If anything, it was worth _merit_, not punishment.

As Anna slid out of her thoughts, she noticed how unusually quiet the room had become. For a moment, she could think (or hope; she wasn't quite sure) that Michael was finished ranting.

But of course, it was just her luck that he wasn't.

"And of _all _the _billions _of humans Castiel could've been bonded to, it just had to be Dean _Winchester_," the archangel spat out the name like it was a horrid bile sat on his tongue, pointing a hand to ceiling, "That man has caused so much trouble in my garrison, messing with my angels - cheating Death?" He questioned Anna, frustration practically oozing out of his every orifice, "Sure. It happens every now and again to the odd mortal. But _six times? _How is that even _possible_?" The archangel spluttered incredulously, striking up his pacing again, "The amount of paperwork we've had to do because of him is absolutely ridiculous. And he has trust issues up to here-" he threw a hand upwards to emphasise his point "-I swear, Anna, it's like God is _testing _Castiel. Seeing how easily he can crack one of the most difficult human beings on the surface of the earth. And in only four weeks, Anna._ Four weeks!_"

"It's harsh, I know brother, but God works-"

"So help me, If you say 'in mysterious ways' I will personally kick you out of this office." Michael interrupted, nailing his second with a cold, steely glare. Anna shut her mouth, inwardly rolling her eyes at the archangel. She hated it when he was grumpy. Mostly because he destroyed half of America when he was.

With that thought in mind, she decided to change the subject.

"I heard Gabriel tied them personally." She commented idly, pretending to examine a microscopic problem with her fingernails while she listened intently for Michael's response.

"...Gabriel?" The archangel paused, processing the information, "Oh thank Heaven," there was a soft _fwump _when the archangel flopped down in to a nearby chair, his wings folding beneath him, "Cas'll have a little help - he won't be _completely _doomed, at least."

Silently, Anna sent a quick prayer of thanks. At least America would still be on the globe now, even if it _was _nearly torn in half.

"I hope the Winchester wasn't affected too badly," she added as an afterthought. The tying of two angels was hard enough, and they were the same species. It only made sense that the tying of human and angel would probably leave the human worse off. Depending on the strength of the bond, a human could suffer from an all manner of things. Colds, migraines, fevers... With very strong bonds, the human might even pass out.

Michael gave a derisive grunt.

"Think of it as a memo from me; a 'this is your comeuppance for cheating Death a billion times over'," Michael fell silent for a moment, leaning back in his chair. A minute of thick silence passed, the archangel's brows drawn together in deep thought, lips pressed against one another.

And out of nowhere, Michael laughed, his face (so stony before) seemed to crack with the size of the smirk that lit up his features.

"Dean must've had a heart attack. Oh, I would've _loved _to have seen that!"

Michael's laughter quietened slightly as he began giggling to himself, imagining death-defying Dean Winchester being scared right out of his little cotton socks in so many different ways by Gabriel. Anna sighed.

Michael was just a big kid, really. A big kid who just so happened to be an extraordinarily powerful archangel, with over a hundred angels at his disposal and the whole of Heaven as his back yard.

Oh well. A happy archangel was better than an irate one.

The Pit itself was trembling with anticipation. The demons could smell it in the air, mingling with the foul stench of blood; the helpless souls could feel it alongside their eternal punishment; the hellhounds could feel it pulsing through their senses.

The King of Hell was about to call in one of the biggest debts he'd ever made.

The debt of one Dean Winchester.

And the best part?

Dean didn't even know he _had _a debt.

Of course, the deal had been made several years ago, when Dean had just been a stupidly naïve nineteen year old boy. But Crowley had leapt at the chance to make a pact like Pavlov's dogs leapt at the sound of the dinner bell.

Now, it was strange for a King of Hell such as himself to appear personally to a pathetic human - it was beneath him, in fact, to visit the groundwork for twisted demon souls. Commonly, it would be a lesser demon (a lackey of sorts, working overtime from the usual slicing and dicing of fresh souls on the rack) sent to collect a debt from some unsuspecting mortal, and, in some simple cases, the hellhounds were sent to do the dirty work of their masters.

But Dean... Dean was different.

How so, you ask? Well...

Ever since his birth, Dean Winchester had had the _brightest_, most beautiful soul that Crowley had ever had the pleasure to lay his eyes upon.

And it was so very _powerful_.

With a soul like that within his grasp, Crowley would never have to worry about a threat to his throne from angels, demons, or any other particularly idiotic thing that dared try its luck ever again.

For nineteen years, the King of Hell had bided his time (as much of a cliché as that sounded) waiting patiently for the day he could make a deal with Dean Winchester.

And that day came in 1998, on the eve before Dean's departure to the army.

The boy had been sat on his bed, looking around at his bedroom, drinking in every poster - every _scuff - _that littered the pale walls. It was almost as if he was trying to memorise them, so that every time he closed his eyes whilst he was away, he could believe that - just for a moment - he was back home.

Dean stared like that for what felt like years, trying to get the feeling of nauseousness that was swelling in his stomach to calm down, at least a little.

"Army tomorrow, huh?" He said to the empty room, his hand absently smoothing the thin linen bed covers, "Well, dad would be proud, I guess..." His brow furrowed a little, rethinking his last statement, "No, he'd be mad at me for leaving Mom and Sammy behind. And I wouldn't blame him either," the Winchester stayed silent for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck as he let out a sigh.

His eyes met the ceiling, as if he were looking to the roof for guidance.

"I..." Dean paused, biting his bottom lip nervously, "Keep them safe. Please."

And like a crouching tiger, Crowley had pounced on his opportunity.

"Oh, I can guarantee that, Dean."

The smooth, accented voice poured over the room like honey. And it had the desired affect too.

Now, you must remember that Dean was a young, sometimes naïve boy at this time - the older Dean (taught by war and scarred by the memories it had left) would've pulled a gun on the sharply dressed intruder in an instant.

But this Dean? Well, he could only stand to face Crowley with a strange mixture of shock and confusion flitting across his face.

"Who-Who are you?" The teenager stuttered, backing towards the door, hands fumbling for the handle. Inwardly, Crowley grinned, flicking his wrist behind his back to lock the door. The king of Hell's mirthless smile widened as he saw panic flare in the human's eyes as he struggled with the door. Fear could always keep the cattle confused.

The demon held up his hands by his shoulders, to show he meant no harm. Which was a lie of course. He _was _a demon, after all; lying is in the job description.

"A person who cares," he answered silkily, his calm voice easing Dean, lulling him in to a false sense of security. The demon smiled so humbly that he surprised himself, "I can take care of them, Dean. While you're away."

The teen eyed him suspiciously, backing away slightly, leaning against his wall. This guy... Call it instinct or intuition, but Dean knew this guy wasn't human. His thoughts were only confirmed when the stranger's eyes flickered to an eerie red for a moment, nearly making Dean fall over in surprise.

"...What's the catch?" He asked tentatively, an eyebrow arching. Crowley's lips twitched, but whether it was from the urge to laugh or annoyance, Dean would never know.

"Nothing at all really. I just..." his hand flailed in the air for a moment, trying to find the right words and phrase them correctly, "Need to visit you. After your time in the war."

"But..." Dean began, his hands tapping erratically on his thigh - a gesture that was to follow him throughout his life, "What if I... Die? While I'm... serving." The word tasted foreign on the Winchester's tongue. _'Serving'_. It sounded like a prison sentence.

The realisation of possibly dying had only just hit him in that instance, when he had spoken out loud. It pummelled in to him like Liam Mitchell's fist in eighth grade, straight through his muscles like a static shock. He could die. He could cease to exist, cease to think or feel...

That thought alone was terrifying.

"Oh, you don't need to worry about that. I'll keep you... safe. Secure." Crowley waved Dean's concerns away, his shoulders shrugging slightly, "Death is such a trivial thing. Really, you humans make it out to be much more than it really is."

Dean did cocked his head at that statement - it was like the guy _knew _about life after death.

"Now, to matter of our little... agreement." Crowley strolled around the bed, stopping mere feet away from the boy before him. Dean felt uneasiness creep up his spine like an alley cat. Suspicion coiled in his gut - every instinct was telling him that this wasn't right.

But the offer had been _far _too tempting.

That day, the King of Hell had grabbed himself leverage over every other supernatural thing in the universe - every vampire, werewolf, wendigo, ghost, angel - all with just a few well placed words at the right time. With just a persuasive tone used on a scared teenager. The only downside was that he'd had to keep the Winchesters safe - if the deal was broken, so was the contract. No contract, no soul. No leverage.

But finally, after seven long years of waiting, the King of Hell would get to reap what he had sowed.

Plates clinked from the kitchen, the almost rhythmic sound of a cane thumping on the ground flowing out of the open doorway as Dean searched for a first aid kit. He knew he had one here somewhere, hiding amongst his clutter...

His fingers brushed the handle of one of the higher cabinets in the room, and he pulled the wooden door, his eyes landing on the small metal box resting on the topmost shelf, shining innocently. Dean eyed the glinting object with triumph.

"Gotcha."

A frown of frustration soon replaced the would-be smirk that was so commonplace on the Winchester's lips; his leg was restricting him, sending out ragged jolts of pain every time the veteran reached out on his tiptoes towards the kit. He cursed at the goddamn wound, his irritated voice filling the air. One simple thing like this and he couldn't even-

"Having a little trouble, Dean?"

Instinctively, Dean reached for the gun hidden under his belt and turned to face the unfamiliar voice, repressing a shudder when he was forcibly reminded of Gabriel just over a week ago. That was a face he never wanted to see again.

The man stood before him wasn't Gabriel, much to Dean's relied. Whoever it was, he was grinning like a cheshire cat, his hands clasped together in front of him, resting on the smart black pants he wore. His hairline was receeding slightly, and his eyes seemed shadowy. Hooded - staring at Dean with an almost hidden expectation, like a dog waiting for a bone.

Somewhere in the Dean's mind, a brief memory stirred, murky and difficult to grasp on to. But, much like the fluttering of a crow's wings, the vague flicker was gone after a second.

"Who are you?" Dean asked calmly, his voice low, gun held aloft at the intruder.

"Oh Dean," the man tutted, walking forwards a little, head shaking, "You really don't remember me? I'm almost hurt."

Dean cocked his gun at the intruder's approach, a steady finger on the trigger as his gaze stayed on the guy's face, collected and prepared.

The man pouted.

"Let's get rid of that nasty toy, shall we?"

With a flick of his hand, the gun shot out of Dean's grasp and landed at least seven foot away, skidding across the floor with a scrape so loud that it made a cat outside flatten its ears and hiss in fright. Dean stared, his hazel-green eyes wide and shocked, at the man - _thing _- stood in front of him.

"I promised to visit," the thing continued, meandering straight up to Dean now that the stupidly useless gun was out of the way, "After your time was done."

A glimmer of something raced across the human's eyes, something akin to recollection and fear, stirred together to make something else entirely. Dean tried to back away from the intruder, but his back merely ended up hitting the kitchen cabinets behind him, his head inches away from wacking the open door of the top cupboard.

"You..." The human said numbly, the faint memory from seconds ago floating around his mind's eye, gradually becoming more and more vivid as he stared at the face of the man in front of him. Seven years... A deal sealed with words... They surely had meant nothing at the time... right?

The stranger rolled his eyes.

_Idiotic_.

"Yes, _me._ Crowley's the name - and you owe me one big time, Winchester." Crowley stated, a hint of annoyance overlapping his vocals, "Seven years. Seven years of keeping your _bloody_ family safe. Do you understand how many resources it takes to keep humans from dying?" He asked Dean, looking at him in the way Dean would expect a stern parent would look at their child after they did something naughty. Crowley continued, "I'm lucky Michael hasn't found out why you aren't dead yet. Otherwise _I'd _be dead, thanks to you."

Honestly? Dean had no clue what this nutjob was talking about. All Dean knew was that this thing had protected him and his family whilst he'd been away. He didn't need the details - he didn't _want _them either. So this guy could just hurry up and get his weird-ass outta here for all Dean cared. Don't let the door hit his tail on his way out.

Crowley's expression morphed in to one of anger as he skimmed across the human's thoughts, his teeth baring slightly in a strange grimace, the mid-afternoon sunlight shining in such a way on the demon's pale skin that it made him look almost animalistic.

"You ungrateful, pathetic excuse for a human," the King of Hell snarled, raising his hand. Dean wasn't aware of what this was supposed to do, until he was flying sideways, skidding across the kitchen table and hitting the wall with such force that the plaster cracked beneath his body. Bizarrely, Dean found himself absently thinking that the neighbours would be disturbed.

The tap of well-polished shoes on the kitchen tile eventually forced Dean to open his eyes. Crowley was striding towards him, and a pain was building in Dean's chest the closer the thing got.

"And they say _we're_ the worse versions of _you_."

Dean opened his mouth to reply, but he found himself choking on thick, coppery substance, coating his tongue like liquid velvet. With alarm, he realised it was blood, enveloping his mouth with a warmth that made him want to vomit.

Somehow, he managed to spit out, "What... _are _you?"

Crowley smiled, bending down to look the veteran straight in the eyes, his elbows on his knees.

"A demon. King of Hell, actually," he answered simply, his eyes flickering to red for a moment. He shrugged, "And, unfortunately for you, I am _not _your fairy godmother. Deals like the one I gave you need to be paid, my friend. With interest."

A slither of movement drew Dean's attention away from Crowley's face, and he saw with increasing panic that Crowley's pale hand was reaching towards his forehead, finger's outstretched.

The Winchester tried to move; desperately, he tried wriggle or scramble away, but he found he could barely twitch a finger. His green eyes darted about in ferocious fright; he was a wounded animal, caught in a trap that it knew it was to end up dying in.

Dean could only close his eyes and brace himself for the worst.

"Get away from him, Crowley."

The rough voice caught the attention of both human and demon. Dean's gaze looked up at the sound of the gravelly chords, and Crowley turned his head in curiosity, his hand retracting from Dean's forehead.

Though the Winchester couldn't see it, a smile had once again wound itself across the demon's face.

"Ahh, Castiel," Crowley purred, standing to face Castiel, his arms parting from his sides in a welcoming gesture; even from where he was lying, Dean could see that it was anything but welcoming, "Long time, no see. Last I checked it was, oh... Two thousand years, give or take?"

Dean spluttered on his own blood, partly from confusion, partly from his windpipe gradually becoming clogged as the King of Hell and Castiel conversed. Desperately, Dean tried to cough out a warning to the other man, but his tongue felt almost swollen as it sat in his mouth. He was fast approaching a point where he wouldn't be able to breathe.

"Release your hold on him immediately." Castiel commanded, his voice pulsating with authority. If he'd been able to, Dean would've done a double take. He sounded too much like a freakin' army officer to be a guy who was homeless and being beaten up not two hours ago. And the fact that Castiel and this creep Crowley knew each other was even more strange.

"Now, why would I do that, Castiel? You're all out of juice, last I heard. God's making you limp," Crowley responded teasingly - Castiel clenched his fists at his sides, knuckles going even paler than they had been before. The demon eyed the angel's shaking hands and let out a huff of amused breath, rolling his eyes. He turned, hand reaching towards Dean once again. The veteran squeezed his eyes shut.

All of a sudden, there was an earth-shattering crash, and Dean's eyes flew open in surprise. The space in front of him was Crowley-free, but the kitchen wall to his left wasn't.

Castiel (skinny, half-dead, just recently concious Castiel, let Dean remind you) had Crowley pinned to the wall by his throat, the man's free hand dangling loosely by his side whilst the other had clenched it's fingers around the demon's neck.

"I am not... 'out of juice', Crowley." Castiel paraphrased, his voice a low grumble of threatening volumes, "It appears your information is faulty."

Now it was the King of Hell's turn to look like an caged animal, his eyes wide, face turning red as it became increasingly more difficult to draw breath.

"Now _release him_."

Even with Castiel's hand beneath his chin, Crowley managed a nod, and suddenly it felt like a weight Dean hadn't known was on his chest was lifted. Blood cleared from his airways and his slowly fading vision became clear once again. The veteran took in a desperately needed breath, like a drowning man emerging from a lake. On shaking legs, he stood, leaning heavily against the wall.

"C-Castiel...?" He asked weakly, staring at the enigma still holding Crowley firmly against the wall. The man cast a strange sort of glance at Dean; one that both seemed irritated and apologetic at the same time, before he turned to face Crowley again.

"Go."

The simple command rippled through the floorboards themselves, shaking the ground. In the blink of an eye, Crowley had gone, and Castiel was stumbling a little on his legs as he made his way towards Dean.

"What-"

"Dean," the low voice cut him off, weaker than it had sounded before, "Don't be afraid."

Dean nearly yelled at that. How could he _not _be afraid?

But the veteran didn't have time to try and form a valid response, because two of Castiel's fingers touched his head and everything went black.

Castiel caught the falling human with ease, pulling one of the human's stray arms over his shoulder. The two forms struggled in to the living room, climbing over the debris of plaster and broken wood from the kitchen table.

As Castiel shouldered Dean's limp form on to the couch, he couldn't help the spike of fear that pierced his chest.

Crowley was _after _Dean. For some reason or another, the King of Hell wanted the human's soul. Wanted it badly, by the looks of things.

And that wasn't good.

Though the human wouldn't remember anything that had just happened when he awoke, the fallen angel couldn't shift the settling uneasiness sitting in his gut.

With his Grace gradually decreasing (even more so now that he'd used it to gain an advantage over Crowley) it was going to become a tough time trying to protect his charge. The whole of Hell would probably be on Dean's heels within the next week.

The the thought that Hell's worst was coming at them whilst they were defenceless sent chills down Castiel's spine.

He allowed himself to fall in to the armchair opposite the couch, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Everything ached. He could feel the slow, steady drip of his power leaking through his body, leaving to mingle with the energies of the earth itself. His wings (once magnificent and wonderfully light) now sat, heavy and unmoving against his back. Already, the week away from Heaven was doing things to him.

Castiel's gaze wondered to the wrecked kitchen, and with a thought, it was clean again, pristine as it had been before Crowley had decided to visit. Just the simple act of tidying up made the once-angel feel like he'd been sucker-punched in the gut, and he doubled over, tasting the telltale coppery texture on his tongue. Blood. He was coughing up _blood_.

If the others could see him now... How pathetic he would be in comparison to the Michael, already brighter than most angels. How Anna would take pity on him, take pity on the state of her little brother. Uriel would sure just point and laugh.

The very thought of his siblings in Heaven made him feel isolated. Alone. And angry. Rage so strong that it made him want to smite something.

He did not deserve this punishment. He did not deserve _any of this. _

The force of the emotion was so strong that his lifeless wings rustled under the influence of it. Castiel felt ashamed. An angel should not even be feeling rage. Righteousness, perhaps. But _rage_? Rage was for the mortals, the things that bled and hurt.

Much like a numbing poison, the realisation that he would soon _be _one of those things spread right through him, reaching the tips of his fingers and toes.

The once dull ache had become a sharp throbbing in his chest now, constantly reminding him that he was doomed. Even if he was, he had better rest anyway. Another exhaustion of what little remained of his power like earlier and he'd be dead and cold on the ground within minutes.

In one final act of desperation, his blue eyes raked the ceiling, his hands clasped together and his elbows rested on his knees, mussed hair falling across his forehead.

_Michael_, he prayed helplessly, a pinched expression claiming his features,_ What should I do?_

And for the first time ever, there was only a taunting silence to answer his prayers.


End file.
